


Sanctuary

by AnnaFaie



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 09:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFaie/pseuds/AnnaFaie
Summary: Harry’s breath catches as he sees the pen animation appear at the bottom of the screen, scrawling away for what seems like minutes but could only be a few seconds.Set after Tottenham’s win against Fulham, August 2018.





	Sanctuary

Harry can feel his heartbeat thumping in his ear, the adrenalin coursing through his veins, making him giddy and restless. He glances down at his watch and, sure enough, his heart rate is at 135. The come-down after a win is always difficult for him, and he paces the changing room in a half-hearted attempt at stretching his tired legs.

 

The other Tottenham boys have long gone, and there’s a cool-down session early the next morning, Pilates or something. So he really should be heading home, where there’s food and a warm bath and the familiar comfort of his bed.

 

Instead, he takes out his phone.

 

 _Hey. You in town?_

 

His breath catches as he sees the pen animation appear at the bottom of the screen, scrawling away for what seems like minutes but could only be a few seconds.

 

_I am. I saw the game, congratulations. You look to be in great form._

 

_I miss you._

 

_Me, too._

 

_Where are you?_

 

_Hilton on Park Lane. Meetings all day tomorrow._

 

Harry grabs his bag and throws the various bits of kit into it without looking. He’s sure he’ll be looking for a sock or a heart-rate chest strap tomorrow, but he is buzzing too much to care.

 

 _Give me 30 minutes_ , he types as he is walking to his car. He hides his face best he can, walks quickly to avoid any lingering fans. It’s late, but a few people are there, and he is grateful that none call out to him.

 

The drive fails to calm him down, and every red light and errant driver or slow elderly woman crossing the road make him want to scream. He bites down on his tongue and taps on the steering wheel with his index fingers instead, the navigator guiding him into central London with a dispassionate metallic voice.

 

His phone vibrates and he chances a glance at the message while waiting at what seems to be the hundredth red light. Room 340, it says. He smiles. Gareth has never needed lengthy explanations. Harry needs him, and he’s understood as much, and it is quite as simple as that.

 

The hotel lobby is cool and quiet, almost empty this late in the evening but for the receptionist, a couple of bellboys and two men drinking wine at the bar. The receptionist, a pretty blond girl, looks up and nods at him, and perhaps Gareth has called to inform her that he is expecting Harry. In any case, he makes his way to the elevator without being questioned.

 

He presses “3” and leans against the glass wall. It’s cold against the back of his head, oddly pleasant. Harry closes his eyes and steadies himself, takes a deep inhale and then lets the air leave his lungs in tiny bursts. His body is taut with nerves and adrenaline, a muscle twitching in his right leg. He wants to run, to scream, to do something, anything.

 

A quiet ping, and the doors open. The room is down the end of the corridor, a suite, away from the main section of the hotel. The door is open, just a crack, barely noticeable.

 

Harry doesn’t knock. He goes in and closes the door behind himself with his hip. The nightlight illuminates a small sitting room, dark wood desk and a chair, and a sofa in front of an obscenely large television screen.

 

Gareth raises his head from where he is sitting on the sofa, the bluish light from the laptop screen making his weary face appear even more lined. He sets the laptop aside carefully, rises to his feet. He is wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his usual pair of impeccably ironed suit trousers. Harry can see a jacket and overcoat neatly hung off the back of the chair.

 

“Hi,” Harry says dumbly.

 

“Come here.”

 

Harry obeys, as he always does. He finds himself enveloped in Gareth’s arms, pressed firmly against the warm solidity of the older man’s body. He exhales deeply, moulding himself against Gareth, arching forward as strong hands run up and down his back, comforting, soothing.

 

“What do you need?” Gareth asks quietly.

 

“To switch off. Haven’t slept properly in days. Everything’s too...manic.”

 

Harry feels Gareth nod. His chin is caught between a thumb and index finger, and Gareth presses a soft kiss to Harry’s lips. It’s a gentle, chaste thing, a familiar comfort that tastes vaguely of good whiskey.

 

“Alright,” Gareth looks at him, as cool and collected as ever. “Take your clothes off. Bedroom is to the left.”

 

As always, Harry obeys, his tired limbs protesting as he peels off his trainers, jeans and shirt. He folds his clothes on the edge of the bed, and flops face-first onto one of the pillows. He realises he’s more tired than he thought, closes his eyes.

 

Harry feels the bed shift under Gareth’s weight. Feels muscled thighs straddle him, hands slide up his back, long fingers digging into his tired muscles with just the right amount of pressure. He moans quietly into the pillow as Gareth finds a spot just under his left shoulder blade. His neck is even worse, the tension having been building there for weeks, and Harry almost sobs with pain and pleasure when Gareth starts working on the muscles connecting it to his shoulders.

 

He is not sure when Gareth’s touches become more loaded with promise. Except those talented hands make their way to his arse, kneading, caressing, teasing.

 

“Turn around”.

 

Again, Harry obeys, Gareth lifting himself up to allow him to turn. He settles back onto Harry’s hips, the wool of those pristine suit trousers scratchy.

 

Harry isn’t quite sure how Gareth can be so fucking calm. He is painfully aware that he is getting hard, and there’s no hiding that fact, considering he is wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Gareth, meanwhile, is fully dressed, reaching for a bottle of oil on the bed-stand.

 

He leans forward and kisses Harry again, and this time it’s deeper, longer, and Harry wonders if Gareth isn’t quite the stalwart pillar of self-control they all imagine him to be. Gareth runs his oil-slick hands along Harry’s thighs, up his sides, and it tickles. Harry laughs weakly into Gareth’s mouth, arching upwards and, oh, Gareth isn’t perfectly in control after all. Somehow, that fact manages to be one of the most arousing things Harry has ever experienced; the fact that this man, his stalwart, wants him.

 

“Close your eyes”, Gareth’s voice is low, raspy, like he’s fighting to keep it from hitching.

 

Harry nods, leans back into the pillows. He keeps himself from hissing as Gareth’s tongue draws a path down his neck and chest, lower, lingering on the groves of his stomach. Harry sucks in a mouthful of air, and a hand keeps his hips down as Gareth kisses the inside of his thigh.

 

Everything narrows to a pinpoint of sharp, almost painful pleasure as Gareth takes his cock in his mouth. There is nothing but the wet warmth of Gareth’s mouth, the pressure of his tongue, his hands holding Harry still. There are no thoughts, no doubts. Harry is just about able to hold himself flat on the bed despite wanting nothing more than to thrust up into that glorious heat, some small part of his short-circuiting brain giving him that much at least. Instead, he grabs at Gareth’s shoulders, numb fingers not quite obeying him, feels the soft fabric of the older man’s shirt, the firm muscles of his shoulders underneath.

 

He wants to warn Gareth about his impeding orgasm, whimpers something incoherent through a haze of desperately building pleasure. When the orgasm floods his body, it’s a seismic thing, shuddering through Harry mercilessly, wiping away any semblance of restraint. He registers Gareth gagging, then saying something.

 

Harry doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move, riding the afterglow, Gareth guiding him through it with a gentle hand.

 

He’s not quite sure how much time passes - it could seconds, or minutes.

 

“Harry?”

 

Harry opens his eyes; they’re heavy, and he struggles to focus.

 

“Mmmhmm...?”

 

“Feeling any better?”

 

“Underestimation of the year.”

 

Gareth laughs. His tie is askew, shirt creased from where Harry had grabbed it. Harry eyes travel downwards, brain clearing a little.

 

“Do you want -?”

 

Gareth looks confused, then takes Harry’s meaning, shaking his head.

 

“I’ll be okay. This was about what you needed. You sure you’re alright?”

 

“I will be,” Harry shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows. He’s suddenly too aware of his nakedness and of Gareth’s very much clothed state. Gareth’s tight trousers hide little, and Harry can’t help feeling guilty. But before he can say anything else, Gareth leans towards him, kissing him with a tenderness that is somehow exactly what Harry needs at this precise moment. That tenderness is disarming, and it makes Harry feel safe. Gareth’s weight is pleasant, his body a shield.

 

“I’ve been offered the contract”, Gareth says as they come up for air. “It’ll be alright.”

 

For the first time in months, Harry feels like it will.


End file.
